


Under Your Idle Caress

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Dubious Consent, F/M, Sleepy Sex, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-01
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-10 21:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sleepy Jim Keats, unable to take control and manipulate? How can Alex resist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under Your Idle Caress

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, for the prompt "sleepy/unconscious" and thus contains activities of a dubiously-consensual nature.
> 
> Title from Soul Coughing's "Lazybones". Takes place in some strange hybrid setting between 3.05 and the rest of canon that can't actually exist. Thanks to **thatyourefuse**, for the shameless encouragement and beta work.

Alex realizes she's dreaming when Shaz walks Chris in on a leash. The leash isn't the weird part, it's that they're dressed like food - Shaz is a cupcake and Chris is a pack of chips - and clearly, she's got to stop watching old movies before she falls asleep. There's something about _To Kill a Mockingbird_ that's always given her the creeps.

Except -

She didn't watch telly last night. She left with DCI Keats - Jim, she tells herself, when you sleep with a man, you should call him by his given name - and they'd gone back to her flat for some fairly spectacular sex. And he's still in her bed, where she is not, because she's apparently started to sleepwalk and has now woken up on her couch in his shirt.

There's probably something to be studied in that. She can't be arsed to try, though, because she's woken up aching and frustrated. Not because of the dream - that hadn't been anything out of the ordinary, just her coworkers dressed strangely and Alex trying to catch an elevator that kept sticking at the 12th floor. But as she blinks her way into consciousness, her body reminds her that yes, the sex had been as good as she remembered, and they'd both fallen asleep before she could reciprocate his extremely generous performance of oral sex.

She's just missing one key ingredient - a bespectacled DCI with a talented mouth.

Easily remedied, and she gets up, padding through her flat toward her bedroom. She hits the doorway and _oh_. That's pretty. She almost doesn't want to breathe, in case she disturbs the picture in front of her: Jim, lying on his stomach in her bed, covered only by one of her sheets. Red is a good color on him, draping across the small of his back and the curve of his arse, one leg underneath the sheet and the other kicked halfway out. His hair's sweated out all the product he puts in it, disheveled dark curls against the pale skin of his neck.

The effect of _look at you_ is ruined somewhat by the almost little-boy pout on his face as he burrows into her pillow, escaping from the light pouring in the window. He's probably awake, so she walks across to the bed and threads her hand through his hair, petting gently.

"Morning," she says, expecting him to crack his eyes open. He doesn't, just mumbles under his breath and exhales. She almost laughs. "Come on, it's not that early."

But he doesn't move, even when she good-naturedly pushes at his shoulder. His limbs are sleep-heavy, and if he were playing possum, now would be the perfect opportunity to grab her about the waist, pull her down onto the bed and pin her wriggling in place. But he just stays motionless, and well, that's interesting.

A fully-asleep Jim Keats isn't something you see every day.

The itch to push the boundaries wells up in her. She's always loved the idea of being a naughty girl, breaking the rules, sleeping with men her mother would have disapproved of on principle. But her mother's gone twice over, and Jim's right here, and Alex lightly brushes her fingers up one arm. Over his long, tapered fingers, past his wrist and forearms, ruffling the hair and dipping into the crook of his elbow. He shivers when she reaches his bicep, and she draws back, ready to be caught. He just mumbles again and stretches out a little more.

Oh, good, more access. She very carefully lies down next to him, sure that the dip in the mattress will wake him. He stirs for a few moments, and she freezes. It's not as if she's doing anything wrong, but for some reason, she doesn't want him awake. He's warm and solid like this (it had been chilly in the flat last night, his hands cold against her) and her fingers itch to touch him. She risks carding her fingers through his hair again, soft dark curls wrapping around her fingers. Her nails scratch gently against his scalp and he makes this lovely purring sound.

He's got to be awake now, that sound and the way he's shifted his hips against the mattress. She leans down and whispers, "Shift over, hmm? I want to blow you."

And all right, if he doesn't react to _that_, he damned well better be asleep.

She leans over to kiss at one of the scratches on his back; a long one right over his shoulderblade that she doesn't actually remember making. Her hands are still in his hair, brushing against the shorter hairs at the back of his neck, and she has to smile when he mumble-purrs again. He shifts against the bed and she can see he's half-hard, cock pressed against the sheets.

Her fingers are tracing up and down his back very lightly, but she digs in a little with her thumb right under his shoulderblade. Watches how his hips flex, slow and almost imperceptible. He exhales softly, face still relaxed and open, and she spreads her fingers out, sweeping down and then up his back. She leans in and kisses him right at the base of his neck, nipping just lightly.

Fuck, that was a mistake. That was a serious mistake.

Leaning in means she can smell him. Male sweat and the remnant of cigarettes, and the smell of them on the sheets from last night. Feels it hit her right in the cunt, and she groans softly, pressing her legs together and kisses soft and open-mouthed slowly downward. Inching from his neck to where his shoulders spread out, down his right arm.

And if she thought he was purring before, the noises he's making now are even better. Soft, exhaled gasps, his thrusts becoming more purposeful. Alex gives a light, questioning scrape of her teeth to his wrist, pulse hammering under her lips, and he arches up beautifully.

She doesn't dare to bite down too hard, but she slowly, carefully sucks right at the bend of his elbow. He's so pale, you barely have to touch him before he starts to flush. Leaves little red marks down his shoulders and upper back, tasting the sweat on his skin. She works her way down his back, her tongue playing over the little mole on his left side. She thinks very strongly about biting the curve of his arse, but decides to bypass it. Inches the sheet down, her fingers playing right at the dip between his cheeks, but he moans, and she freezes. Her heart's pounding and she's barely done anything.

She wasn't actually looking forward to trying to turn him over (there's so much more skin to explore there, but she won't be able to move him without waking him) so his instinctive shift to his back is a relief and his timing is excellent.

Just has to take another moment and _look_. Pouting lips and dark hair falling into his eyes and that mark she left on the bend of his neck last night. The dusting of chest hair and dark nipples she's going to play with later. Footy-player legs tangled in her sheets. Nicely muscled chest and narrow waist, the dip of his hipbones begging for her tongue, And well, she can't say she's surprised by what his cock looks like, considering his willingness to bulldoze Gene right back.

But skin, wow. That's a new sight, too. She's never been so eager to see someone's bare skin before. That is, of course, what a distressing tendency to remain completely clothed - even during a good deal of sex - will do.

Oh, she's going to have such fun with him.

If he were awake, she'd go right in for a kiss. Deep and sweet and open-mouthed, the way she hasn't liked to kiss since high school; when she had hours to spend making out with boys and sex was a big scary future thing instead of a certainty. Thatcherite wankers and Gene Hunt are all well and good and lovely in bed, but none of them have the enjoyment Jim has of just lying there, kissing.

That's how all this started, after all: a late drink at Luigi's after they'd walked out of CID, Jim insisting on walking her to her door despite that it was barely ten feet away, and her leaning in just to see if he really smelled as good as she imagined. He'd turned his head, and they'd kissed, like something out of a costume drama. Judging by her wardrobe, she _is_ in a costume drama, and well, why not take advantage of it?

He'd stammered something about not wanting to sexually harass a junior officer, and god, that's the first time anyone in this place has used the phrase "sexual harassment" in its proper context. To show her appreciation, she grabbed him by his tie and propelled him onto her couch.

"You're not harassing me, sir. Shut up."

"Then you should probably stop calling me sir," he replied, hands on her hips pulling her down to his lap, mouth edging along her neck.

Then his mouth was on hers again, and it's all a jumble of skin on skin and hands (and tongues) in places she hadn't been touched in ages. His mouth is amazing, and she's wet again just thinking about it.

But okay, revenge. The itch she's got to put her mouth all over him and make him lose it as spectacularly as she had last night. Starting with not waking him up, because she knows a control freak when she sees one, and he'll never let her enjoy herself if he's awake. Starts with curling up next to him, watching his face carefully for signs of wakefulness. It's a few minutes, but his face smooths out, his breathing slow and even.

Up close, she can see the beginnings of stubble on his jaw, which is so incongruous. He's - not exactly a Boy Scout, not after last night - but she'd be hard-pressed to describe him as "rugged" or "rough". The hint of stubble is lovely, though; sharpens his jaw, gives him less of a youthful look. He isn't jailbait - barely a few years younger than herself, if his records are to be believed - but he persistently has the look of an overgrown schoolboy about him.

Hardly a shock that she finds him so attractive, really - by-the-book Essex man who's guaranteed to set a few eyebrows raised.

She leans over, presses a light kiss to his temple, and he doesn't stir. Slowly and deliberately, she inches closer, slinging a leg over one of his and walking her fingers up his chest. Traces the upper swell of pectoral to where it spreads out into shoulder and bicep, and he shivers, unknowingly pressing his leg right where she needs it.

Ohh, naughty Alex. She should really let him sleep, but Christ, she can't help rubbing against him, hips in a slow rock. She bites back a moan at how good the friction feels, knowing she's slick inside her knickers and if he were awake, he'd know it too. He'd smile that sneaky grin of his at her, and brush her hair back off her face, watching her work herself against him.

Her fingers trail down his chest, brushing over the dip and rise of his ribs, and the slight swell of his stomach. His cock is flushed red, lying in a curve against his thigh, and she dips a finger into the fluid pooling on the head of it. Smears the pre-cum just enough to give her something to work with and strokes him slow and steady.

He's probably awake, but he hasn't complained yet, so she gives in to the urge to play a bit more. Drags her nails ever so slightly down his shaft and his hips snap, his mouth opening in a gasp. Brushes two fingers over his balls on a downstroke, and gets a beautiful choking cry that she's desperate to hear again and again. He thickens in her hand as she watches, muscles beginning to tighten up, and she's so, so wet against his side.

Her motions speed up - hand and hips - and suddenly, with a moan, his eyes snap open.

"Morning," she purrs, continuing what she's doing.

His head is thrown back on the pillow, and he looks over at her with darkened eyes, all pupil, all desire. "This going to be a regular thing?"

She laughs. "That would be spoiling you. What if you'd woken up before me?"

"I'm - oh, Christ, Alex - I'm sure I would have thought of something."

Being the inventive bastard that he is, he would have. Of that, she has no doubt.

"So, I asked you a question earlier, and I don't think you were quite conscious yet," she says. "Care to give me an answer?"

"Of course. What did I miss besides you doing wonders for my shirt?"

Her tongue flicks out over one nipple, and he hisses, hand tightening in her hair. She's eased off his cock a little, her motions slowing down, drawing them out so he doesn't come until she wants him to. It's nice being the one calling the shots - one gets the sense that it doesn't happen with Jim Keats very often.

"Told you to shift over so I could blow you. Offer still stands."

The look on his face is utterly male - half-exasperated, half-hopeful. "I really don't know who you've been shagging, but you don't ever need to ask a bloke's permission for that."

"Good to know," she says, and slides down his body.

His attempt at a reply is lost in a low moan as her lips close over the head of his cock. She lets the bitter flavor roll across her tongue, slowly taking more and more of him. His hands thread through her hair, urgent, but not pulling or directing - a nice change from the hypermasculine twats she's slept with here, whose idea of courtesy is grunting before they come down her throat. Jim really just seems to enjoy her mouth on him, which is good, because she hasn't given a blowjob at her own pace in a long time.

And she's at that point where everything's all hazy-good. Sex-high and still a little tired from last night, she can feel all his small movements, hear all the sounds she'd usually miss. Her lips aren't rubbed raw yet, she can feel the little drags and pulls of her lips against his cock. She's never mastered deep-throating or anything like that; the uncomfortable clench of her gag reflex and the stop-start rhythm she switches to when she starts to cough are familiar enough, but he's polite enough not to force her through it.

Her fingers are still impatient and curious, though, reaching down to trail across his inner thigh. He swears - fairly creatively, for early in the morning - when she brushes both the pads of her fingers and her nails over his balls, hips beginning to stutter. He gets deathly quiet when he's close to coming, breath coming in pants, toes curling. She tightens her mouth over his cock, as far down as she can take him, and sucks slow and hard.

He burns when he comes, spilling down her throat, sweat pouring off his skin.

As she clears her throat and crawls back up beside him, her cunt reminds her how soaking wet and throbbing she is. She can't remember the last time she forgot to get herself off during a blowjob (she likes giving them, and no one's ever complained when she slides her other hand between her own legs while she's got her mouth on them), but when she reaches down, Jim pins her hand to the bed.

"Oi!" she protests, but his mouth covers hers, and he slides a hand underneath her knickers. He smiles against her as he feels the way his fingers slip against her, the way she grinds down against his hand.

He sets a slow pace, but it's good - firm press of his thumb against her clit, two fingers fucking her cunt. She can feel him hum as he tastes himself on her, and she arches against him, tangling herself up in him. She loves the feeling, sometimes, of being so wrapped up in someone; of course, she also knows it's her trust issues and daddy complex talking.

It's good, but she needs more. Bites his lip and begs for it, for another finger in her cunt and a quicker pace. He gives it to her, mouth sliding down her jaw, pressing to her neck, licking up sweat and teasing sharp, tiny bites. His thumb presses down just right, and she comes like a fucking shot.

When she can remember how her arms and legs work, she disentangles her iron grip on him, apologizing. "Ohh, fuck, sorry. Let me-"

"Well worth it. I'll take the bruises if it means you blow me like that beforehand."

"Deal," she says, stretching and rolling over to look at the clock: 9:06. "Shit, it's past nine. I don't know what time you've got to be in, but I'm late for work."

He winces. "I'd intended to get an early start today. I'll be up to my eyeballs in paperwork from the Hardwicke case."

Gathering her resolve - because there's a part of her that'd like to say to hell with work, they should both come down with a sudden case of scarlet fever or something - she gets out of bed and heads for the bathroom. If she doesn't wash her hair and the smell of him off her skin, she'll have the entire department giving her the evil eye.

"Alex?" She turns around, finding an uncertain Jim getting to his feet and dragging his hands through his wrecked hair. "Tell me you've got room for two in your shower?"

She laughs - because he looks just so adorably alarmed - taking his hand and tugging him along with her.

"Stop panicking, we'll fit."

As long as he doesn't mind hot water, they'll be fine.


End file.
